


with my eyes wide open i'm dreaming

by chewsdaychillin



Series: upton house softness [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Hair Washing, M/M, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), extreme sappiness like extremeee, t to be safe but its basically general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: 'They’ll have a bath.'‘Thought you didn't know?’‘I'm guessing. Big old Georgian estate? I'm thinking big tub with those claw feet.’‘Mmm that sounds nice. I've not had a bath since I was a kid.’
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: upton house softness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998130
Comments: 3
Kudos: 74





	with my eyes wide open i'm dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> this is sfw but there was nsfw in the previous part of this series that isnt discussed but is like? mentioned once maybe twice. very vaguely 
> 
> also this part of the series has some discussion/depiction of jons canon typical upton house haziness and memory is a bit of a theme here but its all very tender hes having a great time

Lying there is lovely, afterglow spreading like toffee through every pore, swapping between them and seeping into the sheets. But eventually lying there gets a bit hot, and the heat only serves to emphasise the fact they haven’t washed in God knows how long. The sheets are rucked up a bit and sweaty now, wrinkles pressing into their tired skin, rough with unspecified grime. Eventually Martin prods Jon’s shoulder, ignoring his grumble, and suggests again that they should probably have a shower. 

Either Jon has exhausted every possible excuse to keep them both in bed, or he feels the same, which he really ought to. ‘They’ll have a bath,’ he says, like it's a fact, sitting up too. 

‘Thought you didn't know?’ 

‘I'm guessing. Big old Georgian estate? I'm thinking big tub with those claw feet.’

‘Mmm that sounds nice. I've not had a bath since I was a kid.’ 

He doesn't expand, but not because it's too sad for polite society - the big move from the old farmhouse on the edge of the Dales to the cramped red brick of the city when dad had left the picture. Just because Jon knows all that, the sad and the rest of it that's fairly normal. So he doesn't have to explain. 

Jon hums, nods. Manages to make it better than neutral. ‘It does sound nice. Shall we go then?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Martin says as his stomach starts growling at him again to move. ‘I think we should.’

Jon fills the water a lot higher than they used to on the farm. Martin remembers baths as coming up to his hips, just. His knees sticking out into the crisp air as he sat cross legged. He says this as the tap keeps running, and Jon doesn’t ask him how they rinsed, because he too was raised with tight purse strings (Blitz-surviving miser, sure, but the result is much the same) and knows the answer is a saucepan of cold. 

‘Not our water bill, is it?’ he grins. ‘I say we run up the metre.’ 

By the time they both lower themselves in, relishing the hot sting on their aches and pains, the water is nearly over the lip of the tub. It makes a gurgling sound as it laps into the drain. Pointing this out only makes Jon splash him, which obviously means he gets a faceful back and only the one apology for all his spluttering. 

They take turns squishing right up against the ends of the tub (the taps are in the middle, thank God - the argument over who would take the pointy end would have gone on hours) so the other can dunk their head fully underwater. The dimensions mean a lot of squashing and kneeing and weird touching in weird ways but somehow the bath is conveniently big enough to allow it. 

It’s all a bit silly, having Jon’s knees in between his and Jon sitting on his feet under the water, scrunched up with his hands into his chest. If this were a movie they’d have bubbles enough to cover all that awkwardness; as it is they can both see every scar and mole and stretch mark under the wobbling surface. But actually the moment Martin manages to seriously breathe out and get his whole head under the warm water it more than works. It feels baptismal. 

The muffled sound of the room’s silence as the water rushes into his ears. The little rock of the way it ripples from his movement, Jon’s little movements. It’s amniotic. Still and safe and clean. He stays down there a while, feeling his hair go weightless behind his head, thinking stupidly and instinctively about the texture of water being perfect for life, and thinking, with his eyes closed, that he could be anywhere but he’s very much just here. After all that supernatural, the simplicity of water feels normal in a way that makes his senses relax for the first time in a long time. 

He emerges with his hair all back from his face, feeling childishly like some sort of mer-creature, cleansed of everything. He takes watching over Jon going through the same process, he assumes the same sort of feeling, just as seriously. 

After that it’s half hearted arguments over shampoo - 

_Just turn around, let me_

_I can do my own_

_I know you can, but I want to_

_You don't have to-_

_Oh no you don’t. No, you had your turn. Let me do something for you._

And awkward rotation that leaves more water sloshing over the sides. 

Once round Jon sighs and lies back against Martin’s shoulder, smacking his lips like he’s settling in for another nap. Martin lets him for a moment, winds his arms over Jon’s chest and kisses his wet cheeks, catching thick tendrils of dripping hair against his mouth. Then he goes in with a particularly pressing kiss so that Jon’s shoulder knocks against the edge of the tub and he sits up, laughing, intoning _fine, fine_. 

Still, Martin has to keep lifting Jon’s drooping head off his shoulder in order to have any hope of getting a good lather. But, since there’s no saucepan, or jug, or repurposed bucket in sight, he guides it back down gently in order to rinse. Squishing himself again to the back of the tub, he lets Jon rest his head in his palm, keeping the back of his hand on his stomach, and whispers _close your eyes_ before he carefully sloshes water around Jon’s hairline. It’s all very methodical but Martin can feel his heart swelling gently looking down at him. 

Then he’s abruptly pulled down by the scruff of his neck into a very wet kiss that, he splutters in protest, nearly _drowned me, Jon, watch it!_

He’s halfway through his own wash before Jon can figure out turning around again, and the exasperated look he gets says _you should have waited._

‘Done,’ he smiles, holding his hands up, ‘I’m done.’

Jon rolls his eyes, but he seems too tired or too unworried to argue as Martin slips back down into the water, content to watch. Next Martin works conditioner into the bleached ends of his hair, which are catching up on their months of being very much left out in the elements. The colour was already all but faded, and there was a limited supply of zero to choose from in their local village shop, but it’s been long enough Martin’s just gotten used to it and called it a look. He’d half a mind to buzz it all off, but now that he gets hands in his hair he likes the feeling too much. Besides, he probably has a weird shaped head or something. 

He doesn't regret it now. Having something to take the time over feels nice, even if it’s only one thing for one moment and it’ll probably dry a bit crunchy still. He swills his hands in the water, watching the left-over conditioner go grey and cling to their leg hair where their kneecaps stick out into the air. 

‘Come here,’ he says softly. The water sloshes as Jon shuffles in closer and dutifully offers his wet head. 

Martin takes a smaller blob and pulls Jon’s ends round one shoulder to scrunch it up in the curls. This has been nice, too - observing and learning what he does and what his hair likes. It’s been a long time for both of them since they really looked after something as obvious and simple as their own hair. Not just in the wasteland but before. It’s not like Jon was wasting time air-drying or styling when he was sleeping in the office. 

So it was nice, up in the Highlands with time, watching him shyly meander back into a routine. Shuffling round the kitchen in Martin’s socks with his head upside down, scrunching and getting his T-shirt damp. Martin had worried he’d catch a cold the first time - he’d never been allowed to sit around with wet hair in the evening. But he can admit when he’s wrong. It’d been so long that he’d gotten used to the heavy, sad way Jon’s hair had reached his shoulders with barely a wave in it; started to think he’d imagined the romantic way an errant curl had fallen across his frowning forehead in the beginning. Seeing the waves come back to life and start to coil into something with a bit of buoyancy and fullness… yeah, that had been nice. Beautiful. It takes Jon’s hair almost up to his chin, and the way the split ends of the dark ringlets curl around his jaw is like something out of a bloody oil painting. 

Martin takes his time with them, everything seeming to slow down and get very quiet, until Jon looks at him like he knows he’s being spoiled. Martin chews his lip and indulges in a second longer. He can hear both of their breathing. Then he lets the wet curls go slowly with a soft _there_ , and after that it seems they’re just looking at each other. 

Looking at each other soon becomes looking at Jon looking at him. Jon has always had a way of staring, even when it was squinting and scathing. Obviously the Eye has only served to make his gaze feel more intense. But here again, without all that, his eyes still have the same striking depth and wide intensity that Martin remembers going silly over all that time ago. He breathes in and out into the space, sees it mingling with the steam of the bath in between them. It does nothing to haze the pull of human eye contact. It's a lot to be scrutinised, and a lot be so seen by the person he loves more than anything and to feel the weight of love back in that stare. He almost looks away - it would be so easy to scoff or laugh or go red and look at the water instead. But he doesn’t. He blinks slowly and breathes slowly to stop himself shrinking and lets Jon look at him. 

The gentle intensity of it makes him smile a bit when he does. It’s nice to look back at his boyfriend all clean and soft and handsome with his wet hair and his big eyes. He’s about to say something, to say _you have beautiful eyes_ or something equally cheesy but absolutely true (beautiful brown eyes, Martin should tell him every morning, really-). Then he’s cut off by Jon’s hands coming up either side of his face. 

Cupping his cheeks, stroking his temples and eyebrows with his wet thumbs. Martin sighs, relaxes into his hold, never doubting Jon can take his whole weight. He closes his eyes then, letting himself feel Jon’s looking in the way one hand comes away from his cheek and softly traces the lines of his skull with wrinkled fingertips. It’s sweet, feels comforting first, then a bit reverential and he’s not sure he can open his eyes. Then it gets even more specific. A bit weirder if Martin’s being honest. He holds in a giggle as Jon traces down the bridge of his nose with one finger. 

‘I like this bump,’ Jon tells him, like he’s appraising an oil painting or choosing a new sofa.

‘You're mad,’ Martin tells him in return. He opens his eyes then, grinning pink at finding Jon bunched right up in front of him, knees knocking, with his curious look filling Martin’s whole field of vision. 

Jon frowns, running his finger over the bump in question (from hitting the pavement in a pedestrian accident, nothing as traumatic or cool as it might have been). ‘I am not.’

‘Explain the method in it then?’ 

‘I’m trying to remember,’ Jon answers with his slightly defensive speed that Martin’s very used to by now, and doesn’t take as a challenge, ‘remember what looking at you here feels like.’ He pauses then, and strokes his soft fingernail over the tip of Martin’s nose, down his septum and back again whilst he thinks. ‘It's… like... like I’m looking at you differently somehow.’ 

Martin blinks into his eyes again. ‘Are you?’

He looks back now, trying to figure out what’s different, other than it feels like the Eye can’t get them here. Other than there’s very nice light in here and the tawny specs in Jon’s eyes look especially pretty. Looking longer, he realises. It’s that Jon looks like he's here. Like he’s entirely focusing, but without the creases he usually gets in his forehead when he's concentrating on one thing, or the lazer sharp brutality of his powers, or the fear that blows his pupils wide when he’s lost in drinking something in. 

‘What do you see then?’ Martin asks him, sounding vaguely amused. 

‘You.’ Jon says simply. ‘But,’ he goes on more seriously, ‘just you.’ 

Martin exhales low through an O that adds a hint of a whistle. ‘That’s… that’s pretty romantic, Jon.’ 

‘I mean nothing else is trying to get in,’ Jon clarifies, and he finally looks a bit sheepish himself at all this staring. He doesn’t blush brightly, but Martin’s an expert now in spotting the way it speckles over his ears. 

‘Still romantic,’ Martin prods him, grinning into the heel of his hand. 

‘Alright.’ Jon allows. ‘Well. Good.’ 

He clears his throat, but doesn’t drop his hands or his gaze. Normally he might get a bit self conscious when reminded he’s actually quite good at being _romantic,_ but today doesn’t seem to be normal, does it? 

‘Why’s it different then?’ Martin nudges him. He blinks up at the ceiling, smiling as Jon gets gunk out the corner of his eye. ‘What are you trying to remember?’ 

He thinks he might know the answer but it seems too saccharine to possibly be true. Plus the memory thing is maybe a little worrying. If it’s not just romantic words, then it might well be worrying.

Jon strokes the line his brow bone makes with the corner of his eye, follows it to where the cartilage of his nose starts. His thumb pushes into the soft over the hinge of Martin’s jaw. 

‘When we go out again there’s going to be all the other stuff as well,’ he explains, ‘even if I want to I don’t get to really look at one thing without seeing everything else. So. I'm trying to remember this. What you look like right now.’ 

It could easily be sad, that. Instead Martin raises an eyebrow. ‘By poking me?’

Jon prods him hard in the cheek. ‘I thought you said it was romantic?'

Martin snorts which starts Jon chuckling even though he’s still holding his pointer finger like a weapon. ‘Alright!’ Martin dodges it with giggles, ‘alright!’ 

He settles down from laughing with a scoff, flopping his head down as it was so tempting to do at the beginning of this. But Jon’s hands come up under his chin again and bring his eyes up into the hazy sunlight again. Martin grins, turns his head one way, then the other for appraisal. He shrugs his shoulders, blinks rapidly in a mocking flutter. 

Jon doesn’t laugh at his preening though. He takes this all in like he’s watching the climactic scene in a movie, or a ballet. His eyes are wrapt and achingly wide with what looks like catharsis. Or maybe just love. 

‘You're so beautiful,’ he murmurs seriously. He sounds so full and struck with how much he means it that Martin goes still and dead silent, can’t answer his next question: ‘do I tell you that enough?’

Jon shakes his head to himself, wobbling a bit as he does, mumbling something to the effect of _probably not._ Stroking his palms flat back from Martin's face across his conditioned ends, he goes on like he can’t see how much Martin wants to cry looking at his honest eyes. 

‘And you look pretty in this light.’ He blinks a microscopic frown. ‘Can I say that? Do you mind being pretty?’

‘No,’ Martin manages, now so slumped and heavy in Jon’s palms that he’s looking upwards for once into that face full of such soppiness it’s making him blink fast for real this time. ‘I don’t mind…’ 

‘You look like a sonnet…’

‘Jon…’

‘Like a song,’ Jon presses on. His voice is very quiet now, faded and gentle like the words he’s handling are confusing and fragile. ‘I'd say you look like a dream, if that…’ he closes his eyes and his head looks very heavy. ‘You know, if that…’ 

Martin catches his cheek, frowning himself now. He sits up so their angles are back to normal. If all the compliments weren’t enough this does have him worrying a bit. ‘Are you feeling alright?’ 

Jon leans into his hand and blinks up at him. ‘Why?’

‘You’re not usually…’ _this sappy? This poetic?_ Martin shakes his head. ‘You seem a bit loopy.’

‘I'm a bit tired,’ Jon reasons, shaking himself a bit, ‘but I feel fine.’

‘Okay,’ Martin allows him, even though he’s sure he’s going to keep a close eye, even though he’s not sure he likes the idea that Jon’s still tired after they slept what has to be at least half a day. 

He sighs. The water is cooling down rapidly, feeling more and more like sitting in your own shampoo and soap and dirt the longer they sit there. The worry threatens to come out of his mouth so he strokes Jon’s cheek with his thumb gently to calm himself. He feels it under his hand when Jon smiles a little smile, still looking at him. The worry can be dealt with with clothes on, Martin reasons to the indulgent part of him. He can’t ever have this vulnerable beautiful moment in the bath again. Or not for a while, anyway. 

So he decides to keep it as human as Jon’s dark brown stare feels. ‘You know I think all that about you too, right?’ he checks. ‘Even out there I could look at you all day. I have done,’ he adds with a shy smile. 

‘Good,’ Jon says very quietly. His mouth moves in an almost kiss against Martin’s pruned palm. ‘Good.’

He blinks very slowly then and his head seems a bit too lolling even for the sleepy afterglow of a warm bath. So Martin rinses their conditioner without indulging in it. Chivvies him out and into a bathrobe, then into some clean trackies and a hoodie he just… happens to find and chooses to ignore their sudden convenient appearance. 

  
  


Breakfast appears in the warm flagstone, fireplace and herb-bunches of the kitchen with similar convenience. Martin wonders dimly if they even ought to touch it, but at this point if he _doesn’t_ get a bacon bap in him he’s more likely to die than if he does. Maybe it’s a bit creepy that the spider knows Jon likes his eggs scrambled, but at least it puts a smile on his face that feels conscious and not far away. Martin takes some smug comfort at least in that whoever Annabelle has cook for her doesn’t know that the perfect Jon eggs take a splash of milk and a smidge too much pepper. 

Pushing away his plate feels ridiculous after months, probably, without eating. But at some point they are both done all the good they can be by breakfast. Full to the point of already feeling like another lie down. 

‘Right,’ Martin says instead, stacking the plates and looking around for the sink. (Weirdly there doesn’t seem to be one - bloody country houses, where do rich people keep their sinks?). ‘Shall we go and face the music then?’ 

Jon raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Was that a joke?’

‘And yet you're not laughing’ 

‘Ha ha.’ 

‘Rude!’ Martin fake gasps, tapping him on the nose as he stands up. 

He elects to leave the plates for once - thinking dimly that he only has two arms and their host has four times that. And has some idea where the sink is. They should probably be keeping an eye on her. So he sighs, stretching his arms to the ceiling, quietly noticing the way Jon's gaze goes from his eyes to his shoulders to the sliver of skin where his shirt rides up. He doesn't say anything about it, smug and fluttery as it makes him feel still. 

'Come on,' he repeats, stepping back from the table and offering Jon his hand. 'I’ve probably kept you from being nosy long enough.’ 

‘I am the dread power of omniscience, _you_ are nosy.’

 _'I_ am a polite host.'

Jon rolls his eyes and turns on his heel. He barely makes it one petulant little step before Martin makes a grab for his hand and pulls him back into his chest. 

‘Alright?’ Jon asks, amusement muffled in the fleece. 

‘Yeah,’ Martin breathes into his hair. 

He squeezes his arms as tight as he can around Jon’s shoulders, ironically almost shy of how decidedly un-shy he is about this now. After all that’s happened this morning the fact he still needs one more hug is maybe a bit embarrassing. He was just trying to be the responsible one and get them moving again. They _really_ should be getting on with things. Solving the mystery of this house and getting answers out of Annabelle. But -

‘Just love you,’ he says. 

‘I love you too.’

‘Okay,’ Martin sighs eventually. He slips free of the hug and stands ready with Jon’s hand in his. ‘Let’s go.’

Jon squeezes his hand and steps forward instinctively, towards the door they came in through. He stops though, once he’s opened it, and Martin nearly stands on the back of his shoe. He looks up, frowning. 

‘I don’t know the way.’ 

‘Oh ho ho, I _do_ like it here.’

‘Shut up.’ 

Martin slips ahead of him with a last cheeky peck and pulls him over the threshold into the hall. ‘I’ll lead on then, shall I?’

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for readingggg uwu special love to the people who read this whole series of softness... upton house really did something to us huh 
> 
> im still doing commissions and i have a kofi so if u wanna support me u can! im not meant to link them here but [here is](https://babyyodablackwood.tumblr.com/post/630528010471211008/ao3-fic-commissions-kofi-i-am-offering-proof) a link to the links
> 
> xx


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